Then there was a pause. We looked at one another, and Dick's face grew a little redder. Perhaps the sea air did it.

"Are you staying here?" I asked, expecting an invitation to go with him.

"Yes, down here with my wife. Well, good-bye, glad to have seen you again," and he made off, in a mighty hurry, as if afraid of the consequences of lingering longer.

I had never liked his wife (though I had carefully concealed this fact from her observation), and I now put down to her fault his want of hospitality. It was her influence that had changed him. Yet somehow or other I felt chilled by the encounter, in spite of this explanation. I did not fancy any more surprises, and I telegraphed to my club in London that I should arrive shortly; also to my son-in-law, to appoint a meeting with him.

On reaching my son-in-law's office I found him waiting for me, but his countenance was gloomy in the extreme. There was no enthusiasm of delight in his manner. I might have concluded that he was sorry to see me home again, but for the folly of such an idea. We had always been on the best of terms; it was, indeed, my parental influence which had induced Clara, his wife, to overlook sundry of his personal defects for the sake of his handsome income. I might have understood his manner if he had had any interest in my death, but the contrary was the case; for if I had never returned he might have found himself compelled to assist my halffledged youngsters in their struggle to establish themselves. evidently displeased.

Still he was He seemed to

share a prevailing belief that a man who has been reported dead has no right to come to life again. He did not ask me to go home with him to see Clara; he said that he supposed I was in a hurry to get back to my family in the country. He confirmed Hodgson's news of the health and prosperity of my household, but failed to explain the latter mysterious cir

cumstance.

"No, I don't think it was Lord Selcover," he remarked gloomily; "except perhaps just at first. They'll tell you all about it."

There was about him an air of injury, of foreboding and of reticence, which I could not fathom. Everything was outwardly right in my family affairs, but something must be inwardly wrong to explain the dark looks, the hints and the reserve which I seemed destined to encounter in unexpected places.

On

I left him to go to my club. my way I met several of my acquaintances. One or two of them did not seem to see me. Of the others one spoke to me coldly and said he had an engagement elsewhere; a second looked at me with unmistakable dismay, and remarked, "I say, but this is a thing, you know," refusing to explain himself further; and a third greeted me with kindness but regarded me with evident compassion. I could endure the suspense no longer.

"I am sure something is wrong at home, Jones," I said in agitation, "but no one will tell me what it is."

Oh, nothing wrong, I assure you," said Jones; "nothing that I know of."

"But everybody looks at me as if I had not a right to come back, as if I had injured somebody by coming back, as if I should find it out presently, and be sorry I had done it. My wife is well, my children are all well, so I am assured; and nobody belonging to me has done wrong or got into money difficulties. It must be something strange or unusual. Tell me what it is, Jones."

Jones twirled his moustache, and told me I must fancy things.

"I fancy the strangest things while I am kept in the dark. Tell me the truth, Jones. Has my wife- -married again?" I faltered, bringing my worst surmise ruthlessly to the front.

"Married again! Good gracious! That old-ahem! Nothing of the sort, I assure you. What could have put such a notion into your head?"

"She is not even engaged to be married?" I persisted.

"Not a whisper of it. Why, man, you've not been dead-supposed to be, I should say, for twelve months yet." "Then what does it mean?"

"Look here, Rodney, hadn't you better get home and find out about your own affairs from your own people instead of running about London asking everybody you meet what's happened to you since you were last alive?"

'I'm on my way to my own people," I answered testily, "and it's the odd look of everybody that makes me ask these questions. I might be Rip Van Winkle by the way I'm forgotten, or greeted by those kind enough to recollect me."

"Ah, well, it's an experiment, you know, coming back in this sort of fashion."

"I suppose I ought to have stayed in Africa because some one happens to have said that I died there?" I suggested scoffingly.

"No, no," he remonstrated, some fellows might tell you it would have been wisest; but I don't go as far as that. You'll pull through, no doubt, and live it down."

"Pull through my friends' welcome, I presume you mean, for I can find out nothing else that's wrong," I answered him in some indignation; and so I left him.

I went on to the club, no longer prepared for the enthusiastic greeting to which I had at first looked forward. What a change a few months had made in the national habits! People seemed to have forgotten how to shake

hands in England, and every man was so absorbed in his own affairs that the return of a friend from the dead hardly awakened any interest.

As I entered my club the Rip Van Winkle feeling increased. I seemed a stranger there and an interloper. A mysterious change had fallen over my intimates. Laughing men looked solemn, cordial men looked cool, curious men were unusually absorbed in their own occupations. Some of them nodded to me casually, more of them did not lift their heads or turn my way; a sort of silence fell on them all as I went in, and a sense of embarrassment. Only one came forward to greet me. "So you've got back again. Heard of it this morning. Not killed after all. Droll mistake to make. Regular hot water and all that. But I suppose it pays. Most fellows have to wait till they get nothing by it themselves. You're in luck there."

He was a man whom I knew very slightly, and his manner seemed to me impertinent. I did not understand in the least what he meant, but I would not condescend to inquire. I turned round and walked out of the club; for the sight of one of my oldest friends with his head hidden behind an immense newspaper, and a distinct assertion, "Nothing is happening that interests me" in the attitude of his legs, was quite too much for me.

At the door I met Lord Selcover coming in. To my astonishment he put up his eye-glass and stared at me for a moment. Then he went on his way without any sign of recognition.

This was the worst of all, and the most incomprehensible. The man who owed me every reparation for his careless desertion, the man in whose service I had suffered and was supposed to have died, who ought to have met me with apology, congratulation, and welcome, cut me in the coolest and most public manner at our first encounter!

I could not demand an explanation then and there. I was too much mystified and doubtful of my own

I TRAVELLED with strangers, and felt glad that it so happened. A friend had become an object of dread to me. Arrived at the home railway-station I was pleased to find the officials as pleasant and respectful as ever. One or two of my poorer neighbours also, whom I met as I walked to the house, greeted me with kindly looks. I began to feel more cheerful, and to believe that I had left my nightmare-whatever it was behind me.

Near the house I overtook and passed the mortgagee of the place. I remembered that my son-in-law had said something which implied that he had given my wife no trouble in my absence. I stopped therefore to thank him for his consideration. He took my thanks rather oddly, and seemed embarrassed by them. I concluded that he was a modester man than I had imagined.

Arrived at my own gate I was surprised to see the air of neatness and prosperity about the establishment. Some repairs had evidently been executed. The garden was in perfect order. A new set of tennis nets and balls encumbered the lawn. It was clear that my family was at any rate not suffering from lack of money. Lord Selcover's generosity must have been immense to justify such extravagance on the part of my wife; and how could immense generosity be compatible with his greeting of me? He could not have supposed that I had intentionally cheated him. Here was the mystery again, but in a pleasanter form than that in which it had met me in London.

The maid who opened the front door for me of course rushed away with a shriek, although she knew that I was expected that day, my son-in-law having written, on the receipt of my

telegram, to break the news to my wife but people of that class never can deny themselves the luxury of a good fright. She explained afterwards that she couldn't but think it was master's ghost after all," when she saw me standing on the steps. She was the same maid that we had had before I left home, but her appearance was altered as much as that of the house; her cap was neater, her apron more pretentious; she had no longer the slovenly and casual air of one conscious of over-due wages, and more proficient in the art of bringing in impertinent messages from the tradespeople than of receiving distinguished visitors with politeness. I could see this, in spite of her hasty departure.

I made my way on to the diningroom unannounced, and there I found my eldest son sitting with the young lady to whom he was engaged. Willie received me pretty much as I might have expected him to do, with a mixture of awkwardness, affection and self-assertion. He had been having fine times in my absence, as the head of the house and the idol of his mother, and he might well feel aggrieved that this position should be snatched from him. But there was no mystery about him. He was frank and natural enough.

I turned to Lucinda. Her very presence in the house was a sign of my wife's extravagance at a time when she ought to have been husbanding her resources to the utmost, entertaining no visitors, and arranging for the future. But I had always been good to Lucinda. I had treated her as a daughter, in spite of the imprudence of Willie in forming an engagement so young, when he scarcely earned enough, (in the city office in which I had placed him) to pay his own expenses. Therefore I smiled paternally on the young lady and advanced to greet her with the usual kiss. To my surprise she retreated, put her hands before her face, and said, half-crying, "No, I can't; I can't indeed. I don't know how you can expect me to."

"I think you oughtn't to mind," was all he said; "of course it's likely that she will feel like that. I'll go and tell mother you're here."

When I met my wife I felt that I had cruelly wronged her in imagining that she could have anything to do with the mysterious unpleasantness hanging over me. She might have been extravagant and thoughtless in my absence, but she was full of rapturous delight at my return. To her I was everything that I had ever been, and a hero into the bargain. I could hardly get her to believe that I had not actually been buried and dug my. way out of my grave with my own hands.

"What you have gone through!" she sighed sympathetically. "How can we ever make up to you for what you have suffered ?"

I did not like to trouble her in the first joy of our meeting by any reference to the unkindness of my London acquaintances, nor to vex her by any hints as to her own superfluous expenditure. She assured me that the children were all well, and that she was not in want of money.

I

"I may say that we are better off than we ever were," she remarked, "and it is all your cleverness. always felt sure that some day or other you would do it."

I did not understand her, for I thought she could not have always felt sure I should be left for dead in Africa; but as there seemed no cause for anxiety, and no need to take immediate action, I was willing to defer all explanations until the next day.

"I ought to have gone out to dinner this evening," my wife remarked, "to the Simpsons, but of course I shall send an excuse now." She was saved the trouble, however; for a few minutes afterwards a note was put into her hand which she read with satisfaction.

"How very considerate of them!" she said; "they have sent to say they won't expect me."

66

"Rather odd of them to take the initiative," I observed, and put out my hand for the note. "Dear Mrs. Rodney,” so it ran, we have heard of the fortunate return of your husband, and feel sure that you will not like to leave him in order to keep your engagement with us. We have therefore decided to put off our little dinner for the present. With congratulations, yours sincerely, Amelia Simpson."

"I wonder they didn't ask me to go too," I remarked, with a doubtful laugh; "perhaps they were afraid I might do it without asking, so they sent this preventive."

"Nonsense, Tom.

The Simpsons

have been very kind, not like some people." "Everybody has not been kind.

then?"

And

"Some people are so jealous. you have been so much talked about," said my wife with placidity. I did not press the subject further, though it struck me as curious that any fellow's friends should be jealous of the fame achieved by that fellow's death among strangers in a savage country.

I was glad to be once more in my own comfortable home-more comfortable than ever, with the chairs recovered, and a new hearthrug-within sight of my smiling wife and delighted children (Lucinda keeping in the background with Willie), and not inclined. to hurry into an unpleasant topic which had no urgency.

The next morning I slept late. When I got down stairs my son had already gone off to town, and my wife was busy with a dressmaker.

"With the crape taken off and a little coloured trimming, you could wear it perfectly well," the woman was declaring as I looked into the door of my wife's special room. There was an unmistakable widow's bonnet on a chair, and a very handsome black silk dress spread to its full length before

the thoughtful eyes of my wife and her professional adviser. I decided not to interrupt them, and went into the garden to look round.

Here my impression of neatness and general improvement was confirmed. Everywhere there was a change, and a change for the better. My wife's clothing and that of my children had alone the old shabby worn-too-long look, but this was now accounted for by the fact that they had hurriedly put off their new black clothes to receive me. Other things indicated the presence of money; they also indicated the absence of me. When I opened my wardrobe it was full of my daughter's dresses; when I went to my writing-table I found the top drawer crammed with letters in a fine writing, signed Lucinda; my son's razors were in my dressing-case, and my private box of cigars was quite empty. These things I was prepared to note with philosophy; my return had been sudden, and my wife had not had time to clear away all the evidences of my having been supposed to be done with which were certain to have accumulated in my absence. She was beginning valiantly with the dressmaker; and I was willing to appreciate her efforts, and to shut my eyes to trifles which she could not desire me to see. What I could not understand was the air of renovation in the establishment itself, and the absence of any new furrows of anxiety in the countenance of its mistress.

From the garden I strolled into the road, and then it occurred to me that I might as well go on and call on one or two neighbours who lived close at hand, and who would certainly be glad to see me. They had nothing to do with London or literature, and could not be jealous of the fame I had involuntarily acquired. I was yearning for some of that warm welcome and enthusiastic interest which my adventures ought to have secured for

me.

At the first two houses my friends were not at home. I knew their

None of my surprises had been equal to this. I felt like one in a dream. Here was my great work evidently written, printed, published, and successful, and I could remember nothing about it! Could my African. fever have destroyed my memory? Had I, before I left home, achieved the long-contemplated masterpiece, and left it in the publisher's hands? Impossible! A mother may forget her sucking child, but an author cannot forget the fruit of his brains, the offspring of his genius. My genius had been childless, of that I was certain, and yet-three bulky volumes, closely printed, and "fifth edition" on the title-page!

I was so much dazed by the sight of my own name and those two most unexpected words underneath it-two words significant of fame and fortune in my chosen world—that it did not occur to me for a moment to look at the title of the book itself. I began to turn over the pages instead. I caught sight of names that I well knew, and plunged into the middle of an anecdote. Could I ever have written this? And if I had been so ill-advised as to put it on paper, by what misfortune had it got into the printer's hands?

"The editor of 'Scandal' is a man whose own life would sell half-a-dozen numbers of his paper if he would consent to relate the disreputable side of it," why, that very editor had been one of my most reliable employers in the past; he would never print a paragraph of mine again! And what came next? "The meanness of Lord